26 February 1917

An Anzac, No! Same kind of hat?
Oh yes, we wear the same;
Same badges, breeches and all that,
But, please cut out the name.

The first batch? They’re my pals all right,
Such chaps, the very rightest sort!
The brand that set the Nile alight,
And every one a life-size sport.

My pals? Some lie on Lone Pine Hill,
Some only reached the Anzac shore;
Some line the muddy trenches still,
Some, fully crocked, at home once more.

Each has his own pet bit of glory,
Some home is proud of Anzac sons;
Dead, wounded, sick – a hero’s story
Belongs to those, the luckier ones.

The girls won’t crowd to hear my battles,
No bally laurel wreaths my brow.
I’ve never been where gunshot rattles
Nor is it sure I shall be now.

My tale? A short one ’tis indeed,
For me no flattering tears will fall;
Jambed in a gun – an invalid
Sent here from Egypt. Yes, that’s all!

Bitter? What if I’m blooming bitter?
Though, grumblings only wasted breath,
I’d sell my soul to have been but fitter
And run with the boys in the Race for Death.

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This entry was posted on February 26th, 2017.